Don't Be Dead
by BelinasEgg
Summary: John doesn't want to believe Sherlock's dead. And three months on, he doesn't have to. Three one-shot reunions. Spoilers for TFP.
1. One

**Disclaimer: I own nothing**

* * *

><p>He'd go everyday. Just after lunch. And sit there, staring at the black headstone. So formal. Nothing like Sherlock. The first few times, he'd cry, because there was a huge hole in his heart. But then, he would think about Sherlock's 'note'. Why had he lied?<p>

And John knew he had. Sherlock was not a fraud. He knew it. Because he was Sherlock Holmes, the stuck up genius.

Even three months later, he hadn't healed his broken heart.

Sherlock was gone. Mycroft had insisted that he stayed at Baker Street. John couldn't bare to look at the older Holmes brother. He'd already punched him in the face when he turned up at Sherlock's grave. He didn't deserve to be Sherlock's brother.

And so, he was staring mournfully at the shiny headstone three months on. Just thinking. He'd done nothing to try and recover from the shock. Made no attempts to get out, repair his social life. He felt like that would be betraying Sherlock.

He scoured the white engraving for the hundredth time.

"Please don't be dead." he whispered.

He begged it every time. Because it was Sherlock Holmes. His best friend. He couldn't be dead. But he was.

"I won't be." said an aching familiar voice, but cracked with a hundred different emotions.

John turned slowly, fearfully, to face what he assumed was an hallucination. It had to be.

It was Sherlock. A battered, bruised, bloody and malnourished Sherlock, but him all the same. His grey eyes, full of fear. His sharp cheekbones, even sharper than normal due to lack of food. His unruly black hair, matted and stained.

John swallowed, gazing up into those eyes. Silently, Sherlock begged forgiveness, breath coming in jagged spurts. And silently John stepped into his friend's arms, clinging tightly to the thin, bony frame. A _real_ form. Not a figment of his imagination.

No words needed to be said. Apologies and forgiveness were given and taken. They just stood together, for fear the other would disappear. The hole in John's heart was filled.

* * *

><p><strong>I watched Sunday's episode, and cried *rolls eyes* But I found Sherlock's 'note' heartbreaking. Anyway, I had to write up a happy ending.<strong>


	2. Two

**Okay. I hadn't originally decided to write any more on this fic, but due to the fact I had another idea, and a lot of lovely reviews which cheered me from my post Reichenbach depression, I've written another reunion.**

** Disclaimer/Warnings: I own nothing, and warnings for attempted suicide.**

* * *

><p>He just stood there. Feeling his heart pounding against his ribs. He hadn't been to the place since Sherlock's death. Hadn't dared.<p>

Now, three months on from that terrible moment, he stared up at St. Barts, to the rooftop where Sherlock Holmes had stood, exactly three months ago.

And then launched himself off.

It didn't make sense. Sherlock would _never_ commit suicide. But he had.

Yes, he most definitely had the courage for it. Sherlock Holmes was the bravest man he'd ever known, eve would know. But he would still never do it. Because Sherlock had the _will_ to live. A burning desire like nothing else.

And after that nightmarish day, nothing had made sense. Moriarty disappeared, as if to prove Sherlock was a fraud. But he wasn't. Whatever the papers said. Whatever supposedly well meaning friends said. Sherlock Holmes was a genius. He didn't care what they said. They said he shouldn't mourn the detective so much. And he continued to.

But nothing was right. And the only thing he could do was mourn, his brave, intelligent, loyal friend.

The sight of the building sent so many painful memories to his heart, harshly pulling the scabs off badly healed wounds. And at the moment, John knew he could never, ever get over Sherlock's death.

He remembered that awful, sickening moment when he'd heard Sherlock's tear cracked voice on the other end of the line. And looked up to see the tall, confident figure standing on the edge of the building, coat billowing around his knees. And then, the leap. And the pain. Like his heart was being burnt.

John swallowed back his tears. When he'd met Sherlock, he'd pulled him back from the depths of despair. And now, he had cruelly thrown him twice as far back.

Everybody said he should forget the detective. That was betrayal of the deepest kind.

And as he stared up at the building, gathering tears blurring his vision, those last, heartbreaking memories returned. In a way, the happy memories hurt most. Sherlock receiving all those presents. The hat. The court case against Moriarty. Being arrested. Jumping in front of that bus. Each full of Sherlock.

And many before those. Many, many memories, which people said he'd one day reflect on with a fond smile. But people were wrong. He couldn't go on. And with perfect clarity, his decision came to him.

He _couldn't_ continue. In this world.

The blare of traffic seemed deadened. The babble of people talking faded. There was a roaring in his ears. Tears in his eyes. Sherlock in his mind. He only had to take no less than three steps forward, and this aching grief which was hollowing him out would be over. And there would be nothing.

And nobody would miss him. Mrs. Hudson would know why he did it. She would understand. Mycroft wouldn't, but John couldn't care less what he thought.

So he drew a deep breath, and stepped to the edge of the curb, like he was going to cross the road. And, as if he was going to cross the road, he had to choose his moment carefully.

He closed his eyes, drew a sharp breath, and took a step forward. Only to find something was holding onto his arm with a vice like grip. He snatched his arm away, spinning round to face the person who had dared 'save' him.

Grey eyes met his, a single tear trickling down an alabaster cheek. John felt his world spinning. Maybe he had succeeded, and he was finally reunited with Sherlock. The event he had dreamed of for so long. It had turned out to be easy. Just dying. Easy.

"Oh John." Sherlock whispered, his voice hoarse through lack of use.

And then the real world hit him. The blare of traffic. The chatter of people. And Sherlock pressing him to his chest, murmuring choked apologies into his hair.

* * *

><p><strong>Okay then. I hope it was alright. Any more reviews would be lovely! <strong>


	3. Three

**Okay. I couldn't resist one final chapter, just to get this idea of my mind. Many thanks to all the reviewers, and any more reviews would be great!**

* * *

><p>It was a complete nightmare. Everything had been a complete nightmare since Sherlock's death. The press, for the first few weeks wouldn't let him go anywhere, clamouring for interviews. Asking how it felt to be betrayed. How it felt to have been friends with a kidnapper, killer and liar. John always answered with the same sentences.<p>

Sherlock's not a fake. He's real.

The press had soon lost interest in the matter, leaving John to his miserable thoughts. He'd spent a few weeks at Harry's to start with. And then, Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson managed to persuade him to re-enter the flat.

The science equipment was still boxed in Sherlock's room. The very sight of the door made John want to sob. But he resisted. Because Sherlock was dead and he couldn't do anything to fix that.

So now, three months on, he stood in Mrs. Hudson's large living room, a glass of beer clenched in his hand, stick in the other. Of course the limp had returned. As a constant reminder of what he had lost, and what Sherlock had given him.

The room was full of Mrs. Hudson's old cronies, all nattering on, and driving John insane. Nobody should be happy while Sherlock was dead. Without him, the world seemed flat. Empty. Meaningless. The only thing that kept him going was the thought that Sherlock wouldn't want him to give up.

Because he knew, as certainly as he knew Sherlock was no fraud, that he had cared.

Lestrade was at the party too, though it sickened John to call it that. Mrs. Hudson had insisted that he come down and join in the 'fun'. He'd invited Lestrade in the hopes it would mean he wouldn't have to talk. But that had backfired as Lestrade insisted in asking how he was doing.

He didn't know what was worse. The sympathy comments, or Lestrade. The sympathy comments were awful. Because nobody was sad that Sherlock was gone. They were sorry that he'd taken everybody in. Whenever somebody started on that thread of conversation, John would just turn away. He didn't care about being rude.

And Lestrade... He meant well, but John couldn't shake the memory that Lestrade had believed Sherlock was a fake. Had acted on it. And still believed it, though he was careful never to mention it.

Everything made John feel more and more worthless these days.

So he just stood in the middle of the room, ignoring the occasional comment, and struggling with himself over whether he should have another glass of bear. Which would make it his forth.

The doorbell rang again, and John prepared himself for forcing off a barrage of questions again. And then, a scream shattered the noise, and everybody fell silent.

All of Mrs. Hudson's cronies were staring fearfully at the door. Another of them ran through the doorway, white as a sheet, and running up to Lestrade, she clutched him.

"A murderer! Do something!" was all she said.

Everybody watched the door fearfully. There was the sound of a door creaking shut, and steady, carefully steady, footsteps. And then, a tall figure entered into the light.

His distinctive grey eyes searched the room, before fixing on John.

"Oh my god." murmured Lestrade.

John heard his glass fall to the ground and shatter over his feet, more fearful gasps. But he couldn't tear his eyes away from Sherlock's.

Sherlock looked like he had quite literally come back from the dead. His face, clothes and hair were all covered in dry blood. And the pallor of his face. The almost skeletal appearance his cheek bones gave. It was obvious Sherlock hadn't eaten a proper meal in three months. Three long months. And his clothes... They were little more than rags, so different from his usual appearance.

He was reminded, with a jolt, of that time Sherlock had come back after harpooning a pig.

"J-J... John." Sherlock croaked, his voice rough.

For a moment John feared that the blood was Sherlock's. But the man made no sign of passing out. Before he knew what he was doing, he strode forward, raising his fist for a punch. Sherlock caught John's fist with his hand, eyes timeless and sad.

He rubbed circles with his thumb into John's clenched knuckles, and for a moment nothing happened. Then John let his hand drop, and hugged the shivering, trembling, far to thin detective, feeling tears splash onto the blood soaked rags his friend was dressed in. His best friend. Who was alive. Back from he dead.

* * *

><p><strong>Review? Please (=<strong>


End file.
